


Wood Wide Web

by HellowKnight (How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101)



Category: Darkwood (Video Game)
Genre: #general struggles with morality as presented by an immortal infant, Gen, Hand-wavey Science, Mushrooms, Pre-canon through post-canon, Unreliable narrator?, actual baby being, although it doesn't know that, baby being, dehumanization in the form of self-referencing as 'it', faint whiffs of body horror, mycelia - Freeform, no one knows and the being certainly doesn't, somewhat ambiguous ending?, what is 'good' anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101/pseuds/HellowKnight
Summary: How can we expect something that isn't human to think like a human?Answer: when it does. Or, at least, when it tries to.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Wood Wide Web

**Author's Note:**

> Because there was a glaring lack of fics about the Being, I decided to fill that void. That being said, I’m sure there are details I got wrong about the game, and some things I have a different take on. But, I mean, how can there be a powerful, mysterious entity without the requisite fics speculating about said entity? Also, I took the whole ‘infant’ aspect of the Being, made it gospel, and spawned this monstrosity basically in the span of an afternoon. And, yes, I capitalize ‘The’ in ‘The Being’; and, no, I’m not entirely sure why. It’s more official, perhaps? And, yes, the title functions as both a pun and as foreshadowing/warning. 
> 
> As for the lore implications of the Being as an extra-terrestrial, I don’t necessarily disprove it, nor do I support it in my writing. The painting could’ve easily been an ‘artist’s recreation’ type of thing or even a metaphor. My personal inclinations are to veer away from theories explained simply by the existence of aliens, but I will not tell you what to believe. For all I know, though, the Being’s supposed fall to Earth could’ve been what woke it up. For all I know, the Stranger could’ve killed a god. For all I know, the Being could be the sudden manifestation of the forest itself. 
> 
> One last thing to chew on as you read; I wanted to ask you a question. “Is it better to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?” All joking aside, it’s a valuable question. Moreover, it’s debatable as to whether or not The Being is on either side, and as to which side that might be.

It woke up hungry. It was a baby; of course it did. Babies are nothing but hunger and want. Most babies veer from happy to angry to sad from one moment to the next; they don’t have the capacity for more than one emotion at a time. The Being is not really the same; it is similar enough, but it has power, and power precludes youth if wielded well. It is aware enough to realize that it cannot afford to be young, but it is so young that it doesn’t know how to act old. So, it reaches and reaches and leeches, siphoning knowledge and knick-knacks.

There is life scurrying above it. Squirrels and dogs and butterflies and crows and _humans_. The electric tang of human thought draws it like a moth. Human minds are so complex, so squishy, so capacious. But even a human mind cannot fit The Being; it learns this when it puts too much of itself into the tendrils it reached into the mind, and the mind collapsed, shrieking and deflating like a punctured balloon. It had learned a harsh lesson, and it quivered in its hole for days afterward. It could not be too heavy-handed if it wanted to coexist, to help, to understand.

With a subtle touch on human minds, the equivalent of a chin resting on a shoulder, so careful, it learns what ducks are and how they quack. It learns the taste of bread and tomato soup. It learns why blood is red and why it is so important. Does any of this help it?

It also learns how mushrooms use mycelia to form networks.

Mushrooms, it learns, are fascinating. Mycelia is fascinating.

There is so much to learn, too much to learn all at once, so it shoves things away so that it can focus on networking. To its delight, it realizes that it already has a fledgling network of connected minds from all its reaching; it is a nexus for consciousnesses, able to link and fuse and _protect_. It wants, oh, how it wants. From what it has gleaned, it wants to be good.

Was it first a mushroom that gained thought? No – it wishes, but no. There are no answers it has, no answers it can find. Maybe it came from a metaphysical egg. Maybe it was birthed live without a parent. Maybe it emerged alone from a kind of asexual reproductive process of renewal.

Does its origins really matter? No, it thinks, it doesn’t matter as long as there are none.

Mycelia share nutrients and information, and protect each other from disease. What a wonderful idea. It has the foundations of this – just a few tweaks, and it could protect everything in its web. It forces itself into physicality, spreading itself and growing. The plasma is ugly, but efficient, allowing The Being to infect – no, inject, like a _vaccine_ – anything it touches.

It starts slowly, first with the trees. The trees grow quickly, recovering from deforestation overnight. Overjoyed, it counts this a success. When unrest rises, it ignores this; silly humans, it will take care of them, not to worry.

It seeps into the ground next, the water, the plants – and when water evaporates, it gets into the air. Without a choice, without knowing, animals and humans breathe it in, eat it up. It nests inside stomachs, curling up – content. It stops up wounds like glutinous scar tissue. Sick cells taste like caviar, from the memory it has of the taste and texture of food. The brains produce chemicals that it pokes at curiously, but does not dare to mess with. It tongues the chemicals, of course, and the taste of happiness is an automatic craving.

Has it ever felt happy? It thinks so, but its mind is so different from human minds; it wants to be human, though, although it cannot let itself do so, because that would make it unable to fulfill its goals. Its goals, of course, are happiness for all, for everyone, _forever_.

Those that succumb to it are drawn closer to it, bedding down at its roots. Lures of home, rest, comfort, succor, peace – they all come to where they can sleep and be happy and be protected. There are those that resist, warily skirting around it, trying fruitlessly to eke out their happiness elsewhere. Foolish, but it can wait; there is nowhere for them to go, and eventually they will realize that The Being is the only way.

Protection has its cost, however. Those whose wounds are too severe are overtaken by it on accident. They take on grotesque shapes, forming growths and making mutations. These few are hardier than the rest, needing less nutrition, less rest; they resist every other disease than the one already gripping their innards. Unexpected, but hardly unwelcome. Evolution has its stumbling blocks, just like everything else; mistakes are always made on the road to perfection. The Being is just dragging them down the sidewalk.

Soon, it becomes aware of an infestation in its nest, like ticks swarming a dog or rot overtaking a corpse. There are strangers in its midst, testing and taking and tracking. They hover on the outskirts, judging and experimenting. From what little it can gather, they are there to monitor, and if necessary, destroy. It had been willing to offer these strangers protection, to enfold them in its faerie rings, but now the offer is rescinded. Forcefully.

The strangers are too canny to eat and drink much of its bounty; they brought supplies with them, and their bodies digest what little bits it can worm into them. But The Being is patient and angry. With those under its control, it starts a fire. When the ants run screaming, it feels satisfaction. Many are squashed, and those that survive are contaminated. It cannot bring itself to be too benevolent with them, but it accepts them, nonetheless. There is a sole survivor, though, who – when his companions surrendered themselves – stayed behind to suffer.

It takes a simple nudge to lead a local outlier into finding him. Even without its input, the local injects more of its influence into the survivor. The Being bellows out its victory through a thousand savage throats, a thousand looming howls, a thousand guttural shrieks. The survivor might resist, but he is now its – forever, eventually, no matter what. It has eradicated the plague threatening its home, successfully brought everything in its reach together, and now is free to keep and protect what is its.

Lovingly, it weaves a dream from the survivor’s mind, a temptation nigh irresistible, a home to come home to.

And it waits. It watches. It dozes. It monitors the hundreds of dreams it is responsible for.

What is death? It is nothing but a continuation. The dreams continue, regardless. The Being holds everything close to it, unable to let go even if it wanted to. Death is not there for it, nor is it for any under its reach. Happiness is eternal; happiness _will be_ eternal. Is this not good? Is this not what humans yearn for and desire all throughout their lives?

The Being is good. It knows this for certain.

And when the survivor finally falls down at its roots, it gathers him up tenderly and sets him in his dream. This is good.

What is not good is that he wakes up. His hand on it is cold. When he asks questions, it is frantic. Perhaps if they answer, he will go back to sleep? But it does not have an answer for the first, and it does not have a voice or words of its own to answer the second. It borrows, that’s all; it borrows throats and minds, and does not give them back. It borrows and burrows.

It is a child, after all, and no child understands how to share. It wants and it takes, and it cries when it cannot take.

The fire burns, burns it out of bodies when those bodies are destroyed. It wails, but goes unheard. It reaches for a grip, for something to control, for something to stop - and finds nothing. The survivor is cruel; as cruel, it dimly realizes, as it was with the fire that killed his companions. What is the word? _Irony_. Yes, the fire is _ironic_.

It laughs as it burns, because there is nothing else. All its efforts have been erased, all the happiness it cultivated. As the fire closes around him, it tastes his grim happiness. Happiness at its destruction? Already wounded, this deepens the cut. Why would he want it destroyed? It has never felt that wish before. All it has done was good; it does not understand.

Why? What did it do wrong? If it is able to do something, isn’t it good to do it? What would stop it from doing what it felt was good? Why wish for mutual destruction? Why not wish for mutual happiness?

Confused and half-mad from phantom pain, it snatches at the survivor’s mind; it will take him along with it for further study. If the human mind can hold such horrors as this, it would be best to know how and why and what it can do to prevent such a thing. Next time, it promises, next time I will be _better_ , I will be _better_ than good.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have questions, good, so do I. 
> 
> And about the ending, believe whatever you wish, but my personal interpretation (at least in regards to this fic) is that I think The Being was unharmed by the fire and that it took the Stranger (body and mind) with it. And, yes, I also implied that when a Sleeper dies, their mind is still connected to The Being and is preserved in their dream. Where there hints about The Being being the one who controls the Doctor in the prologue? Maybe so, but I certainly didn't specify as to my thoughts if The Being is also controlling/has the power to control the Stranger or that The Being is the reason how the Stranger can die and still wake up the next morning, no siree. But, as I believe all literature is the product of both the author and the reader, you are free to disagree or agree with me as is your want. 
> 
> Also, if you picked up on the parallelism of ‘happy to angry to sad’ as the course the Being’s emotions follow, you’re as much of a discerning reader as I am a discerning writer. You also gain my everlasting respect. And if you know where the question I asked earlier is from without the memes, you are my kin.


End file.
